WATCHERS by Dean R. Koontz

ordinary situation. He had been paid to kill three doctors—not medical doctors,

as it turned out now, but scientists—all of them upstanding citizens, plus any

members of their families who happened to get in the way. Extraordinary.

Tomorrow’s papers weren’t going to have enough room for all the news. Something

very big was going on, something SO important that it might provide him with a

once-in-a-lifetime edge, with a shot at money so big he would need help to count

it. The money might come from selling the forbidden knowledge he had pried out

of Hudston. . . if he could figure out who would like to buy it. But knowledge

was not only saleable; it was also dangerous. Ask Adam. Ask Eve. If his current

employers, the Sexy-voiced lady and the other people in L.A., learned that he

had broken the most basic rule of his trade, if they knew that he had

interrogated one of his victims before wasting him, they would put out a

contract on Vince. The hunter would become the hunted.

Of course, he didn’t worry a lot about dying. He had too much life stored up in

him. Other people’s lives. More lives than ten cats. He was going to live

forever. He was pretty sure of that. But . . . well, he didn’t know for certain

how many lives he had to absorb in order to insure immortality. Sometimes he

felt that he’d already achieved a state of invincibility, eternal life. But at

other times, he felt that he was still vulnerable and that he would have to take

more life energy into himself before he would reach the desired state of

godhood. Until he knew, beyond doubt, that he had arrived at Olympus, it was

best to exercise a little caution.

Banodyne.

The Francis Project.

if what Hudston said was true, the risk Vince was taking would be well-rewarded

when he found the right buyer for the information. He was going to be a rich

man.

8

Wes Dalberg had lived alone in a stone cabin in upper Holy Jim Canyon on the

eastern edge of Orange County for ten years. His only light came from Coleman

lanterns, and the only running water in the place was from a hand pump in the

kitchen sink. His toilet was in an outhouse with a quarter-moon carved on the

door (as a joke), about a hundred feet from the back of the cabin.

Wes was forty-two, but he looked older. His face was wind-scoured and

sun-leathered. He wore a neatly trimmed beard with a lot of white whiskers.

Although he appeared aged beyond his true years, his physical condition was that

of a twenty-five-year-old. He believed his good health resulted from living

close to nature.

Tuesday night, May 18, by the silvery light of a hissing Coleman lantern, he sat

at the kitchen table until one in the morning, sipping homemade plum wine and

reading a McGee novel by John D. MacDonald. Wes was, as he put it, “an

antisocial curmudgeon born in the wrong century,” who had little, use for modern

society. But he liked to read about McGee because McGee swam in that messy,

nasty world out there and never let the murderous currents sweep him away.

When he finished the book at one o’clock, Wes went outside to get more wood for

the fireplace. Wind-swayed branches of sycamores cast vague moonshadows on the

ground, and the glossy surfaces of rustling leaves shone dully with pale

reflections of the lunar light. Coyotes howled in the distance as they chased

down a rabbit or other small creature. Nearby, insects sang in the brush, and a

chill wind soughed through the higher reaches of the forest.

His supply of cordwood was stored in a lean-to that extended along the entire

north side of the cabin. He pulled the latch-peg out of the hasp on the double

doors. He was so familiar with the arrangement of the wood in the storage space

that he worked blindly in its lightless confines, filling a sturdy tin hod with

half a dozen logs. He carried the hod out in both hands, put it down, and turned

to close the doors.

Pages: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164 165 166 167 168 169 170 171 172 173 174 175 176 177 178 179 180 181 182 183 184 185 186 187 188 189 190 191 192 193 194 195 196 197 198 199 200 201 202 203 204 205 206 207 208 209 210 211 212 213 214 215 216 217 218 219 220 221 222 223 224 225 226 227 228 229 230

Leave a Reply 0

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *